yellow
by Irrwisch
Summary: It can't be all dark if there's a light, right? You get your yellow and your orange and you paint. Maybe that's all he needs. Just a little light and the darkness would be no more. From this day forwards, it's all you paint. As tiny as it might be, it could be enough. Maybe there would be light again.


It's fifteen.

It's always fifteen that you can see. They're there even when you close your eyes. You wonder what's behind them. You wonder what's inside them. There would be people living inside, you think. There may even be a few that look over here right now, and they condemn you all to insanity.

Well, they wouldn't be wrong, you think. And yet, the people here don't like that word. It has too many bad annotations, they say. Maybe they're right. It doesn't really change anything, though. You never thought of yourself that way, and here you are still. Maybe you shouldn't leave. But you would. In less than a month, you would leave. Maybe they think they fixed you. You don't feel different, but it was nice seeing them happy.

"Yeah, I think you should stay." You don't react. They don't know about Dream-Dean, and you believe it's best if it stays that way. He's not really a dream anymore. He got mean; and he got too real. But it's still a Dean all of your own, so you're not giving him up. You can't see Dean again. After what you did to him, it's a miracle he ever came to visit. Come to think of it, it's been a while since last he came here. Perhaps he's busy. Perhaps he finally realised what a waste of time you are. You lied to the people here; telling them you had a place to go to. But you can't go back to Dean. You can't do that to him; but you can't go to anyone else either. They're not your friends, and why would they want to take you in? By now, they all must know what you did to Dean.

You wish you could open the window.

"Castiel? Lunch's about to be served", a voice interrupts your thoughts and you stand up. The food here's nice, although you never really cared about that. However, Dream-Dean commented on it, and you simply took his opinion. The other people here rarely talk to each other; the newer they are, the lesser they'll talk at all. Some play games together, in their free time, and some others watch, but it's all rather timid.

You grab a serving – broccoli soup, today – and find a chair. "Stupid hair, just look at it, it looks so stupid, why do you even try", you hear as you take your first spoon-full. You look up and see Bell sitting a little ways away from you, muttering to herself. "And did you see these claws you call hands? Better chop them off, be rid of 'em." You're not sure what Bell is suffering from – you never asked and don't really care either way – but she'd mutter these things all the time. You think it might be similar to Dream-Dean, but you wouldn't know. Dean doesn't say untrue things. "I think your hair looks pretty nice today", you tell Bell just loud enough. "And I could hold your hand, if you want." Bell looks up and you think she should shave her beard. It would probably help her self-esteem a bit. But then again, you know she's got some nasty things to say about her chin. "Castiel", her deep voice is a bit louder now. "You really think my hair is nice?" You smile at her and slide down, so you sit opposite of her. "Yes", you say and pat it gently. "You're taking good care of it, Bell. It's always so soft, no matter what." She blushes at bit at that and looks down. She's fondling her nails. "What about my hands? They're so big. I've seen the girls in the magazines, and how delicate they are and –"she starts to fuss a bit. "You are a perfect human being, Bell." You take one of her hands and make her cup your cheek. "Look how perfect they fit. How could you call something horrendous if it cups my face so perfectly?" She does look. You done this a dozen of times, but every time it feels like the first time. You don't know if you make her situation worse or better, but nobody told you to stop yet. You didn't ask. You can't be told no if you never ask, after all.

She caresses your face a bit, staring at her hands. "I'm perfect", she whispers. "Yes", you say and she starts to cry. She doesn't let go of your face and you don't think they're sad tears. She looks at your eyes, looking for something, you think. You don't know what, and you don't know if she ever finds it. "My ex-wife was here the other day", she whispers. You tilt your head in question. You're not sure why she tells you. You're not friends, after all. You're just being nice – why wouldn't someone say nice things to her? "She called me disgusting again." She's still fondling your face. You don't care. You think that it calms her a little, so you won't make her stop. "I think she comes here with the sole purpose of making me miserable every time I feel a bit better, so that I never leave." Bell's crying now. It's sad this time. "I want to see her; and I want her to accept me. But I don't know how to do that." You frown. You're not sure why she tells you this. There are doctors here who could tell her what to do. What do you know? You think of 13-year-old Sophie, who was told to let her feelings go. Maybe Bell should do it too. "Let her go", you say and Bell looks at you, utterly shocked. "She won't take you for you, Bell. She hurts you; and you shouldn't be hurting. The only one who needs to accept you is you, right? But if you make it about her, you'll never get there. You're perfect, Bell, and I can't tell you more than that. If something hurts you, _you have to let it go_." Oh, if you could follow your own advice. Dream-Dean cackles behind you. He knows what's up, but you stopped caring. This hollow ache will forever remain in your chest and you came to accept it.

"How?" she whispers and you shake your head. "I don't know. You don't need her anymore. I need you to remember that you're a beautiful, bright star in the sky. You shine so brilliantly, and I won't allow you to go out. I love you, Bell, and you need to tell you ex-wife no. I know you can. The nurses will get you your best outfit and you'll go meet her as the beautiful woman that you are. Courage comes from trying, after all." She simply stares at you. Your soup's gone cold by now, you think, but it's not that bad. Her hands slide from your face and she stares at them. You get up and leave. You don't know if you helped or made it worse, but spoken words can't be taken back. You have art therapy now. It's not your favourite.

At the beginning, they told you to paint whatever you wanted. You should paint whatever you felt. You watched the others for inspiration, and when they were new, they would draw angry things. They were angry, and confused, and sad. They didn't give you any inspiration, so that was fruitless. Not wanting to disappoint the teacher, you did paint something. You weren't sure what it was supposed to be, and you hoped you'd never have to explain it to someone.

Oh, how lucky you were.

In your next therapy session, there it sat, in all its sad glory. The doctor was looking at it and you weren't sure if this had been a test. Did you fail? You've always been average at tests. He smiled at you and asked if it was a ball, perhaps. You didn't know, but you knew; if it wasn't, he'd try to coax an answer out of you – an answer you simply didn't have. So you lied and said yes. You said it was a ball you used to play with when you were a child. You quite liked the ball, you said – it was your favourite, after all – and luckily, the others didn't care about it, because it was all grey. You don't why the colour would make them like it less – while playing, the ball would get dirty anyway. But as things stood, the ball was only for you and you liked playing with it. One day, it rolled onto the street, though and a truck ran it over. Thus, the ball was utterly flattened, and you have been forced to throw it away. You've been quite sad about it at the time, but in the end, it was simply a ball.

The doctor nodded and then proceeded to ask you about your feelings towards that situation. At the end of the session, you got quite attached to the story of a ball, even if it had never been real.

It took you three sessions to realise it wasn't a ball. In the next art therapies, you painted the same thing, thinking of it as a ball, only to realise the truth in that little office.

It had never been a ball, even if the story felt so real.

It was simply a pebble.

So here you sit, drawing the ball-pebble again. You haven't told anyone it's a pebble. You don't really want to explain your feelings towards such a tiny, useless piece of rock. You wonder what made you paint it the first time. You remember thinking a round shape would probably the easiest, so you did that. And besides, it was a nice, repeating motion.

"Hey, Castiel", says a voice behind you. You turn around and there sits Jonathan, clearly posed to whisper. "Can I have your black?" You don't want to give it to him. Jonathan paints nothing but black canvases, over and over again. You know why he's here – all the scars are hard to overlook. You wonder how many more he has, in places you can't see. You wonder how many of them are inside. You sigh and hand over your tube of black. He takes it quickly and retreats. One time, he wasn't given an extra tube of black and he threw a tantrum. He's been gone for two weeks, and you thought maybe he got fixed up, but he still only paints black. You wish he would ask for green, or blue, or orange. You think it'd be nice if his life was more colourful. But you don't know what to do. It's not like you could ruin his painting. You don't want him taken away again. Jonathan is nice, and his smiles are rare, but they are very beautiful. You'd wish he'd smile more. He rarely gets visitors, you know that; and if someone comes at all, it's his daughter. They love each other, but they have forgotten how to interact with each other. Jonathan confessed to you he couldn't look at Susie anymore. You saw her once, just as she was leaving. Her hair was a bright orange, and her dress was a lovely yellow.

You tried to paint Susie, very abstract, but it came out looking like a monster and you decided to not show it to Jonathan – or, for that matter, you decided not to show it to anyone. "I don't have to see anything when I close my eyes", he said to you. "I thought about it – butchering my eyes, but I'm afraid. I wouldn't be able to see Susie anymore. But I still think it'd be better if it was all dark forever, you know? She probably hates me anyway. I'm such a shitty dad." She loves you, you want to say, and you love her. But you don't say it, because you think he knows already. He just doesn't want it to be true. You wonder why.

You stare at your canvas. There sits your pebble, but this time you want to scrap it. So you do. You get your yellow and your orange and you paint. Maybe that's all he needs. Just a little light and the darkness would be no more. The doctor asks you later, because it's not your ball-pebble. "It's not for me", you say and he waits for you to continue. "It's for Jonathan. It can't all be dark, if there's a light, right?" You ask the doctor to give it to Jonathan. You don't know if he does. But from this day forwards, it's all you paint. As tiny as it might be, it could be enough. And maybe he would look at Susie again and see the light in her.

You have free time the next day. You find it rather boring, to be honest. Most people here spend this time playing games or looking out the window. If you got privileges, some even went outside to the gardens. You used to do that until recently, wasting time away staring at flowers. The bees were pretty fuzzy and you wished you could give them a hug. They got such a tiny pair of wings and still they were defying gravity. You wonder if you get something out of that. You're sure someone already got some motivation speech out of that.

Five weeks ago, there had been someone new. It was a girl, and she was very thin, and still so young. You thought she couldn't be older than sixteen. She looked miserable, even for the standard of here. The girl had been withdrawn in herself and she was looking in direction of the window. She was not looking outside. You wondered what she saw. There was a chair opposite of her. You could take it, or leave her alone. You wonder what Dean would do. Dream-Dean was quiet, but Dean would probably sit down and try to talk to her. He could do that, he was so charismatic. You however? You were as charismatic as a rotten carrot. Still, you could try. So you sat down in front of her, but she didn't react. That time, you just sat there, looking outside the window. When you left, you're not sure if she ever noticed your presence.

Now, you brought board games. She wouldn't play with you, but you think she saw you. That's okay. You can play with yourself. If you're playing Sorry against yourself, you could only win, after all. Three weeks you continued this spiel, and you did miss the bees a bit, but you didn't want to give up. "Why are you here?" she asks in a weak voice, and she sounds so unsure. "I tried to hang myself with a rope", you say casually and ponder over your next move. You don't look at her; you're not sure if she could take that. "No", she says. "I mean, here, right now." You frown. Your moves backed you into a corner. "I'm playing a game." She sighs, and she sounds frustrated. "Why don't you go outside? I know you can." You look at her then. "But you're not outside." Her eyes are sunken in, and they're brown and they look so frightened. She quickly turns away. You wonder if she is scared of you. You say no more to her and keep playing. You're losing against yourself. What a stupid game.

"What's your name?" she asks in barely a whisper. "Castiel", you answer and this day, you talk no more. It still feels like a mountain climbed.

She grabs the box of your game one day. "Do you know the rules?" she asks and you say no. You look at the board, and you know she's looking at you. It feels like she's waiting for something, but whatever it is, it doesn't seem to come. "I'm Leah", she says and you look up and smile at her. "Hello, Leah. It's lovely to meet you." She doesn't look away. You think, maybe, she looks a little bit less afraid than before. "Can I play?" she asks and you nod. You don't bother with the rules and you think you almost hear her laugh. Small steps climb the mountain, and you're ready to crawl.

You know she wants to tell you. She wants to tell you why she's here. And you also know that she's afraid of telling you. She might think it would change your opinion about her. It won't, but she doesn't know. She's fidgeting in her seat and you're afraid she's going to slide off. "Why don't you ever ask me questions?" You know that's not what she wanted to say, but it's okay that she got cold feet. "I just asked you if you wanted red or yellow." She groans and rolls her eyes a bit. It's nice to see that she's still a bit like a teenager. "No, I meant, about why I'm here or what happened or some shit like that. Don't you care?" You look at her. "You're here because you are. If you want me to know, then you have to tell me. I know that because you're here, whatever it is that brought you here is over now. I don't know what else I'd have to know." She stares at you and then advert her eyes. You make your next move and you win the round. Oh, that's nice. You usually lose. "I lost it", she starts to sob and you know she isn't talking about the game. You pack up anyway. "It was my only reason of living, and I lost it, and..." She loses herself in sobs. You don't know why she tells you. You're just being nice; like a decent human being, and you're not friends. You wonder if she told her doctor. "I think", you say and you can hear her trying to quieting her sobs to hear you better. "I think your reason for living is yourself." She wails and jumps up. It's the first time you see her standing. She jumps you and grabs your shirt to shake you. "You don't understand!" She shouts and you know nurses are coming. "You just don't understand..." She's quieter now and she sinks onto your chest, crying like a child. You put your arms around her awkwardly and don't know why she needed you to know. It's almost like it's important to her. You wonder why.

Surprisingly, you receive a visitor. Dean hasn't been by in quite a while, so you wonder. Maybe he's come back? Still, you follow the nurse to the visitation room. It's Sam who you spot there. He's never visited you, and he looks a tad bit uncomfortable. You think you can understand that. It's not exactly a nice location that you're in. When he sees you, he stands up awkwardly and starts reaching out his hand, stops midway – clearly wondering if he's allowed to touch you – and moves to hug you, before he stops that too, instead rubbing his neck nervously. You tilt your head and sit down, waiting for Sam to follow. He's fidgeting in his seat, and you wonder why he came. You hope everything is alright with Dean.

"Is Dean okay?" You ask and Sam jumps a bit, clearly not expecting to be spoken to. "What? Err, yes, he's fine, don't worry. I, uh, I came, because, uh... you – you're gonna be out soon, right?" You furrow your eyebrows. "Yes", you answer, but you're unsure what Sam wants. "That's, that's good! That means you feel better, right? Right. That's good, yeah." He's looking everywhere but you. You want to be happy that he came at all – "You would have preferred me, though" – but you'd wish he'd say what he wants to say. "Sam", you say. "Why did you come?" Sam stops his fidgeting. He still doesn't look at you. "I, I just... Cass, you can't come back and stay with Dean." He looks at his hands. You knew that, of course. After what you put poor Dean through, how could you expect to go back to him? Still, hearing it made the pit in your stomach worse. Maybe that's why he didn't come anymore? Maybe just seeing you made his life worse? How selfish of you. Every time, you have eagerly awaited his visit and coaxed the next one out of him before he would leave without ever thinking about how it might make him feel. He must be traumatised by what he saw, by what you made him see. Maybe he even felt responsible? Oh, why did you never consider that? Good, kind, perfect Dean and you just had to come along and destroy him. Oh, just how could you?

Sam looks at you now. "You do understand that, right?" You have the strangest feeling Sam might've been talking. Oh, how selfish of you, having a mental breakdown while someone important was talking. How could you? You couldn't ask him to repeat himself. "Yes, of course", you reply and something akin to a smile flies over Sam's face. Oh. Your answer made him happy. Still, you couldn't smile back. You simply nodded and got up. As far as you were concerned, you were done. You should've enjoyed Dean's friends more. None of them ever came to visit. You think they must hate you for what you did to Dean. "Farewell, Sam", you say as a good-bye and leave the room. For everyone concerned, it was a nice visit. Only Dream-Dean knew the truth, and he wouldn't let you forget. "Just think of what you did to me." He turned around and left. Maybe he went to see his girlfriend.

You get released a day early – they're very sorry, but they need your room – and they ask if they should call someone for you. You decline politely; take your things and leave. You don't say good-bye to Bell, or Jonathan, or Leah. You're not friends, after all.

You walk until the hospital is out of sight. You stop then. What are you going to do now? You have no job, no money, no home and no friends. And even if you would go back to your family, they live three states over – and you don't have money for the bus fare. So you turn towards the park. Maybe there will be flowers, and with them, bees.

There are flowers and there are also bees. They're both very pretty. You lose yourself watching them, having missed them for so long. You don't regret your time with Leah, but you're happy with the bees. Still, you have to think about what to do next. You could always resort back to your previous line of work, but since this kind of got you into this mess, you're not too keen to repeat it. Maybe there will be new job offers around town. Yes. You're going to check tomorrow.

There is a job offer. It's at the Gas'n'Sip, and the manager takes you almost without blinking after you tell her you can operate a cash register. It feels odd, being taken so quickly after your last job-hunting disaster. You can start the next day and you look forward to it. She shows you the store and there is a back room. She asks if you would be okay taking the dead-shifts at the morning and the evening and you say yes. She almost kisses you right then and there. You wonder if these strong emotions are normal.

Working here is nice. People don't know who you are and they don't care either as long as you get their pump right. You declared the slush machine your enemy and that almost feels like it's a normal thing. Maybe it is. You never declared something your enemy before. It almost feels playful. It's odd, and you like it.

You miss Dean, of course. But you can't dwell on that. You've hurt him terribly, and he will live a happier life if he doesn't have to deal with you ever again. Your manager is shocked to hear you don't have a phone, and the very next day, she presents one to you. It's an old and used one, but she says it works and it's a gift for you. You don't remember getting gifts before. You thank her and when she smiles, you smile back.

Of course, you have no friends, so there are no numbers saved into this phone other than the store and your manager. But you think of all the possibilities. If ever you would get friends, you could save their number in here and they would only ever be a call away. You could put Dean's number in. You remember it by heart, but he's not your friend anymore and you can't put in his number without his permission. You fantasise about it, though and it's quite nice thinking about it. You can almost see yourself: you sit in the backroom of the store, in your brand-new sleeping bag and talk to Dean on the phone, rekindling your relationship. He would forgive you for what you did and you would do everything to make it up to him. It feels so real, you can almost hear his voice.

What you do hear, is the honk of something. You look to your side and there is a truck in front of you. It seems so close, you think. It comes closer still, shouldn't it stop? You stare up at it, mesmerized. It's a yellow truck. Jonathan would hate it.

There is something, and then there isn't. Above you is simply the blue sky with two clouds overhead. It almost looks like they're hugging. It's a sound you hear. Maybe something even hurts. All you see are the two clouds.

Your phone lies on the ground, shattered into pieces.


End file.
